Kitty Takes a Holiday kn-3

by Carrie Vaughn

If that was the case, Tony's cleansing spell wouldn't help. We needed Cormac back. If for no other reason than to warn him.

  Chapter 12

  Twilight settled over the forest, clear and stark. The sky turned the beautiful deep blue of prize sapphires. The first star shone like a diamond against it. That clean, organic pine forest smell permeated everything.

  Ben and I sat on the front porch and waited, watch­ing Tony make preparations. He'd parked his truck at a national forest trailhead a few miles up the road, and moved it to my driveway during the afternoon. He pulled a box of supplies out of the back and got to work. First, he leaned a broom against the porch railing, then placed unlit white votive candles along the porch and around the clearing. Moving around the clearing to the four quar­ters of the compass, he drew something out of the leather pouch he carried and threw it into the air. A fine powder left his hands, and the smell of home cooking in a well-kept kitchen hit me. Dried herbs. Sage, oregano. I felt better.

  "You think this'll work?" Ben said.

  "I've learned to keep an open mind. I've seen some­thing like this work before. So, yeah. I think it will."

  "You look better already."

  I felt a smile light my face. "What can I say? The man inspires confidence."

  "Do you know in some regions it's traditional to pay a Curandero in silver?"

  I blinked, then frowned, suddenly worried. Would the ironies of my life never end? "Well, that's unfortunate. He knows I don't let silver get within miles of me if I can help it, right?"

  Grinning, Ben leaned back against the wall. "Maybe he'll take a check."

  I reveled in the moment of peace. Ben was getting his sense of humor back.

  The sound of a driving car hummed up the road, then crunched onto the driveway that led to the clearing. Marks's patrol car, a pale ghost in the twilight, moved into sight, then pulled in behind Tony's pickup.

  Wary, I stood. Ben stood with me. I felt that same sense of foreboding and invasion I had every time Marks had come here. I understood it, now: the spite he brought with him, his part in the curse that had been cast. Now, though, I felt something else: like a wall stood between us, a defen­sive barrier. This time, I had protection.

  Sheriff Marks, Alice, and Joe got out of the car, and Tony walked out to meet them. They all shook hands, like they'd come for some kind of dinner party.

  "Sheriff, Joe, I'm going to have to ask you to leave your guns in the car," Tony said.

  "Like hell," Marks said, as expected.

  "This is supposed to be a peacemaking. Kind of misses the point if you bring guns."

  It was asking a lot, telling men like that they couldn't bring their guns. The whole thing might have come to a screeching halt right there.

  Alice said, "Please. I really want this to work. I want to make this right."

  They listened to her, and Tony led them into the clearing.

  "Everyone ready to get started?" he said. No one gave a particularly enthusiastic affirmation, but no one said no, either. Tony went around and started lighting candles. Golden circles of light flared from them, warm spots in the night. They wrecked my night vision; I couldn't see anything past the clearing now.

  "Gather in a circle. Blood has been spilled here, in malice. There must be atonement for that."

  The others did so, then looked to me. I hesitated—they needed atonement, and as the wronged party here I had the power to forgive, or not. In Tony's ritual, as I saw it taking shape, that gave me control.

  But it wouldn't do any of us any good if I withheld that forgiveness out of spite. This ritual seemed to be less about magic than it was a mechanism for reconciliation. Get us all in one place, make us willing to talk it out. The actions themselves were as important as the result.

  I stepped off the porch and into the clearing. Ben fol­lowed me.

  Nervously, we looked at one another, because nobody but Tony knew what would happen next. Alice seemed sad but resigned, her face pulled into a deep frown, her eyes staring. Marks's frown was different, suspicious. He kept looking over his shoulder. Joe simply stood, stoic as ever.

  Tony snuck up behind me. I flinched, startled, because I hadn't heard him. I'd been too distracted by the strange mood settling over the area—a kind of suspended, timeless feeling, like the air itself had frozen.

  "Sorry," he said, smiling, and handed me something. A tightly bound bundle of some kind of dried plant. Sage, it smelled like, about as long as my hand and as thick as my thumb. He went to each of us in the circle, until everyone had a bundle.

  I assumed he'd tell us what to do with it. I tried not to feel too silly just holding it. Alice clutched hers in both hands, held it to her chest, near to her heart, and closed her eyes.

  Then Tony picked up the broom and began sweeping the dirt in front of the porch. Slowly, he made his way around the circle, clockwise.

  An owl called. This wasn't a calm, random hooting, the low-pitched, hollow whisper I'd heard the first time Tony came to the cabin. This was rushed, urgent—a note of warn­ing, rapid and increasing in pitch. Branches rustled—there was no sound of wings, but the owl's cry next sounded from the roof of the cabin, above where Tony stood. I still couldn't see the bird. It hid itself well in the shadows, or my eyes weren't working right.

  Tony looked around, searching for something.

  Something wasn't right. I'd have sworn I hadn't heard anything, hadn't noticed any scent on the air, but the smell of herbs and candles might have covered up anything else. Still, an all-too-familiar tingling wracked my spine. A sense of invasion. My sense of territory being violated.

  It was out there. Tense to the point of shivering, I looked out, trying to see into the trees, beyond the light of the candles.

  "What is it?" Ben breathed. He'd moved—we'd both moved, until we stood apart from the others, back to back, looking out, ready for danger. I hadn't noticed it because it had happened so smoothly, instinctively, unbidden. Even our little pack circled in the face of whatever danger lurked out there.

  This was driving me crazy. It was like the mornings I'd found the rabbits and dogs all over again. If something was out to get me, why couldn't it just show itself, let me face it down?

  Ben grabbed my hand and nodded over to a spot north of the circle. The sky had deepened almost to black now, and the trees were lost in darkness.

  Red eyes stared back. Points of glowing embers, about the height of a tall wolf. I wasn't imagining it.

  "Was that the thing you saw in New Mexico?" I whispered.

  "I never got a good look at it." His voice trembled, just a little.

  The others looked out to where we stared.

  "Jesus—" I thought that was Joe.

  "Nobody move," Tony said, his calm slipping a little.

  "It's not a wolf," I said. "It doesn't smell like wolf."

  "It smells like death," Ben said, and he was right. The embers went out for just a moment—blinking. The eyes blinked at us.

  "Oh, God—" Alice said, her voice gone high, like a little girl's.

  Tony said, "Alice, stay where you are, don't run!"

  Too late. She backed up, her footsteps scraping clumsily on the ground. Then she turned, arms flailing, and raced. Not to the cars, not to the house, either of which offered safety. She ran blindly into the darkness, guided only by panic.

  That was exactly what the monster wanted.

  "No!" Tony called.

  "Joe, get your rifle!" Marks shouted.

  The wolf shot out of the darkness like a rocket.

  My senses collided. It wasn't a wolf. It didn't smell right, it didn't look right, nothing about this was right. But it had four legs, a long snout, a sleek body with a tail stuck straight back like a rudder. Its coat shone coal-black, and its eyes glared red. Angrily red.

  I intercepted it.

  It raced straight for Alice, latching on to her terror and marking her as prey. Movement attracted notice. I knew the feeling. I didn't think about it—I just knew that I
could stand up to the monster better than Alice could.

  I crashed into it from the side, tackling its flank, wrapping my arms around it, pulling it down. I wasn't human—I had this thing inside me that let me move faster than I ever thought I could, that made me stronger than I should have been. My Wolf was a match for it.

  But the wrongness of it was overwhelming. As soon as I touched it, a numbness wracked my limbs, poured into my body. It made me want to curl into a ball, fetal, and scream until the world turned right again. My vision went gray.

  We rolled together in the dirt. The black wolf snarled and twisted back on itself, snapping at the sudden anchor that had brought it down. Teeth closed on my arm, jaws clamping down hard, ripping into my skin. Better me than Alice. I was already a lycanthrope. I could take it.

  I gasped, and my Wolf writhed, growling in pain and anger. Again, a sense of wrongness—the attack didn't just happen on the surface of my body, but crawled inside it, trying to eat through me from the inside. I'd never felt anything like it. My body slipped a little—she wanted to Change, she could fight better as a wolf, she wanted out so she could protect herself.

  Claws, I needed claws to tear. But I couldn't move. I expected my hands to thicken, my arms to melt. I wanted to feel my nails grow thick, hard as knives, and break through that monster's skin.

  But I didn't.

  I usually resisted the Wolf, kept her leashed tight. This time, now, when I wanted to feel her, wanted her to break free and save me—nothing happened. I froze with aston­ishment. With fear, while the monster grabbed hold of me.

  "Kitty!" Ben shouted.

  I prayed he stayed back. I wanted him out of this. I didn't want him to have to fight like this.

  In something of a panic I slashed, as if I had claws. My fingers raked rough, oily, ugly fur, causing no damage. The thing slammed me onto my back—and made a noise that almost sounded like laughter. My head cracked against the ground, and I saw stars. It pinned me, thick paws on my chest, claws digging in. Its breath smelled of carrion, of sickness. Plague and death. I thrashed in pure animal panic, kicked, got my hands up, took hold of its throat, and pushed. Get off… get the hell off me…

  Its jaws opened over my throat, and its sickly breath gusted over me. I melted, my strength ebbing.

  "Kitty, get back!"

  I kicked its ribs, and its hold broke. I twisted to slip from under its weight, obeying the voice instantly because I trusted it, because it belonged to a man who'd watched my back before. Cormac. As fast as I could, I rolled away from the black wolf.

  In the same moment, a shot echoed, then another, and another. They were close, thunder in my ears, rattling my brain.

  The wolf cried out—a human scream. Too human, a woman in pain.

  The creature lay still before me. I swore I could see motes of dust settling around us, where we'd been fighting.

  I couldn't think at all. I felt like I'd been locked in dark­ness and the prison door just blew open, and now my body floated through the opening. Now, Wolf wanted to ran. On my knees, I bent over double, clutching my stomach, trying to pull my body back into myself. Trying to make myself human again. Skin, not fur. I wanted hands and fin­gers, not paws and claws. Keep it together, keep the line between us drawn. Please, please…

  My Wolf crept back to her lair, growling low the whole time, not believing the danger was over, not believing I could take care of us. Please…

  I took a deep breath, and my body stopped slipping. I flexed my hands, which were hands again.

  "Stay back. Give her space. She might still shift." Cormac was speaking.

  I kept my eyes closed, stayed crouched over for another moment, taking advantage of the moment of space and silence he made for me.

  I want you to take care of me, I wanted to say to him. I wish you were a wolf and could be my alpha.

  "I'm okay," I said, though my voice was weak and uncertain. I looked up. Cormac stood just a few feet away, looking the worse for wear, a few days' worth of beard covering his jaw. He held a rifle in both hands, ready to fire again if he had to. Briefly, his gaze shifted from the body of the monster to me. His look was searching, asking. Are you all right? I tried to pour gratitude back to him. Yes, because of you. I smiled. "You came back."

  "I got your messages."

  "Was this the second wolf you'd been tracking?"

  "Yeah."

  Ben stood beside me, close enough to touch, but he held back, his body fairly quivering with anxiety. He seemed to need reassurance as much as I did. I reached for him, and he grabbed my hand and knelt beside me.

  "You okay?" he said.

  "I'll heal." My whole body ached, pain stabbing along every limb. I wouldn't know how badly the wolf had torn me up until I got into some light and looked.

  "The wolf," Cormac said. "It's not changing back."

  When a werewolf died in its wolf form, the body shifted back to human—returned to its original state. Cormac had put at least three bullets in it, and I knew he used silver. The thing lay in a widening pool of blood. It had to be dead. It even looked dead, a pile of dull fur rather than a glowing, rippling creature.

  But it wasn't changing back. It had never smelled like a werewolf.

  I crept forward. Wrong, this was all wrong, and my flesh crawled. I wanted to go inside and lock the door. But I had to know.

  Cormac said, "Kitty, don't—"

  I touched its neck. It felt cold and strangely pliant under my touch. Its chest was shattered, multiple flow­ering wounds on its back bleeding into one another. Cormac's bullets had found their marks. I ran my hand down its flank.

  Fur. It was only fur.

  I lifted back the head, and the fur and skin came off. Lifted right off, like it was a cloak. I pulled it all the way back and moved it aside. It was a tanned wolf hide, that was all.

  A young woman lay before me, naked, sprawled on her side, exit wounds ripped in her chest. Her sleek black hair was long, tangled around her, matted with blood. Despite being marred by blood and destroyed flesh, her body seemed young, lean, and powerful.

  "What the hell," Ben murmured, on behalf of us all, it seemed.

  "Dios," Tony said.

  He was on the other side of the clearing, with Marks, Joe, and Alice. They'd grabbed her before she'd gone too far. Joe held her around the middle, supporting her, because she seemed about to fall to her knees. Marks had had time to retrieve his handgun from his car, and he stood over them protectively.

  Tony moved toward us, in something of an astonished daze. When he reached the body, he knelt, put out his hand, and seemed about to touch the woman's hair. Instead, he drew back and crossed himself.

  "Dios," he said again. "I've heard of this but never thought to see it in my life."

  "She's not a lycanthrope," I said.

  "No. She's a skinwalker."

  I'd read the stories, but wasn't sure I'd believed them. Everything started out as just stories. Even seeing the evi­dence lying before me, I didn't want to believe.

  Then, as if belatedly responding to Tony's near-touch, she moved. Her head tilted a little, her lips pressed like she wanted to speak, and her eyes shifted under closed lids. Something in her still lived—something inside that ruined chest survived.

  "Oh my God, she's not—" I only started to say it.

  Cormac's rifle fired again, exploding close by like a crack of thunder in my ears.

  At almost the same instant, the woman's face disappeared.

  Instinctively, my arm went up to cover my face. I fell back, but not quickly enough to avoid the spray of blood and bits that fanned out from her head and over my jeans, my arm—everywhere. Across from me Tony sprawled away from her in much the same way, arm protecting his face, spatters of blood on his clothing. I looked back at the woman under the wolf skin. Half her head, where Cormac's bullet hit, was now a jagged, pulped mess.

  Nothing moved now, except blood dripping from the wound.

  Cormac looked down at her over his rifle
, finger tight on the trigger, like he still expected her to leap up and attack. He was ready for her to move again. I couldn't tell what appalled and frightened me more: his lack of hesita­tion in finishing her off, or the lack of emotion in his eyes over doing it.

  I gagged, pressed my face against my arm, and man­aged to not throw up.

  Marks aimed his gun at Cormac and approached him warningly.

  Cormac's finger remained on the trigger of his rifle. He could shoot back in a fraction of a second. Marks had to know that. He had to know better than to start a shoot-out with the hunter. But for some reason it wouldn't have sur­prised me if he did anyway.

  "Would both of you put your guns down!" I shouted. My ears still rang from the shot. Everything sounded muffled.

  Cormac did, slowly. Marks didn't. But he did relax enough to glance away from Cormac and to the woman's body.

  The sheriff said, "Who is she?"

  "How should I know?" Cormac answered roughly.

  Ben said, "You might check missing person reports out of Shiprock." He'd taken my hand again, and I leaned into him.

  "But you knew she was going to be here," Marks said to the bounty hunter.

  "I've been tracking it, yeah."

  Marks said, "I'm going to have to arrest you. A formal­ity, you understand." But the look on his face said, Got you. He wore a thin smile.

  Surely that was a joke. Cormac had saved my life. Then he'd… I didn't want to think about that. The look on his face, the woman's head vanishing in a spray of blood. But Marks didn't like either one of us. He didn't care about me—he had a dead woman and her killer standing there with the gun still smoking.

  Cormac leveled that cold stare, unreadable and unsettling, at the sheriff. Beside me, Ben tensed. He didn't know what Cormac was going to do, either. The bounty hunter was going to spook Marks at this rate. Cormac was like some kind of animal himself, and Marks wasn't going to wait around to let him pounce.

  Cormac put his left hand around the barrel of the rifle and dropped the gun to his side. "I kind of expected that."

  Now, Marks approached him without hesitation. Still with his gun up and ready. I wanted to smack the guy. The sheriff held out his hand; Cormac handed him the rifle.